


Built Up, Torn Down

by theskywasblue



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3760435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They change as Skyhold changes</p>
            </blockquote>





	Built Up, Torn Down

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'm Dragon Age trash now, I guess...(and my fic skills are so rusty. Ugh.)

Skyhold's transformation from military stronghold to bustling township seems to occur almost overnight. One day, Cullen is instructing eager and idealistic young recruits in the finer points of managing sword and shield so as not to be impaled by one or crushed by the other; the next he is directing many of those same recruits as they split logs and lay down stones for the foundations of homes, or as they clear space for roads, tie down thatching for roofs, or build walls. 

It's a bit of a jarring transformation. He is still a soldier - a map of scars and pommel-roughened hands, the memory of battle formations in every footstep, whether made on soft earth or stone - but he smiles more; self-conscious at first about the pull of his scarred lip, but then more easily after a while. He plays too many games of wicked grace, losing his clothes more than once (Varric will always return them. Sera is another matter.) He drinks with Iron Bull - though not as _much_ as Iron Bull; not after that time he tried to keep up with the Qunari and woke up later in a hedge, with Cole leaning over him in the dark, to see if he was breathing. He reads books, sometimes, when there are no maneuvers to plan, no meetings over the war table; and he plays a lot of chess, sometimes with the Inquisitor, but more often with Dorian.

If Cullen had been asked to guess, at the beginning of everything, which member of the growing Inquisition he might become close with, he would not have chosen Dorian out of hand. A pampered Tivinter exile, and a Mage? Ludicrous. They couldn't have been further apart if the Maker picked them up by their shirt collars and threw them in opposite directions. 

Yet, here they are. 

"I want you to know that I hate it when you make that face," Dorian mutters, toying idly with a captured rook. He is rarely still, but such movements betray his thoughts in an awful way. 

"What face?" Cullen chuckles, finally sliding his knight across the board. 

Dorian curses. "The very one you're making right now. You always win when you make that face."

Cullen laughed outright at that. "You need to amend your phrasing, Lord Pavus - the more correct thing to say would be _I always win_."

"And here they call _me_ arrogant," Dorian sighs, making a reckless move with his queen. Nearly everything about Dorian is reckless. He charges through life wreathed in lightning and flame. Cullen, on the other hand, is very much the military man; all calculated maneuvers and acceptable losses.

“They’re not wrong,” Cullen says, biting back the urge to smile. Four moves, if things go his way, and he’ll have the board.

“That’s beside the point!” Outrage wins over good sense, and Dorian claims Cullen’s blatantly sacrificial knight with his bishop, cutting a clear path to his own king in two moves, rather than three.

“One day,” Dorian warns as Cullen claims his queen, “I’m going to get the better of you, Commander.”

Cullen shakes his head, and his smile slips loose. “I very much look forward to that - if it ever happens. Checkmate.”

They clear the board, and start again.

Of course, there are still battles. Thedas is like a smooth stone, resting precariously on the head of a nail; liable to come loose at the smallest upset. Groups of Venatori and Red Templars still roam the countryside, along with more than the usual provision of bandits; that’s saying nothing about the dozens of requests that fall into Josephine’s hands every day, begging for the Inquisition’s aid with everything from locating missing Druffalo to the pursuit and capture of dangerous criminals. The Inquisition does what it can, where it can, but Cullen still spends long nights trying to stretch every resource, and make the best use of every able body.

He falls asleep at his desk more nights than he’d like to admit.

“Well, first of all, you have to get rid of all this mess,” Dorian announces, striding into the tower one rainy morning, startling Cullen from a doze that has him drooling on a report on bandit activity in the Western Approach. He can still read Krem’s looping signature at the bottom, even if it’s slightly smudged.

“What are you doing?” He grunts, his voice like two stones grinding together, grabbing a pile of papers and pulling them off the desk into his lap before Dorian can sweep them onto the floor.

“Bringing you breakfast for a start,” Dorian says blithely, sliding a wooden tray onto the desk. There’s some fruit, a bowl of porridge, a steaming cup of tea...Cullen’s stomach makes a noise he’s not proud of. “You can thank me later. Cole says you’ve been missing meals, and I’m inclined to believe him, since you also missed our weekly game -”

“No I -” Cullen pauses, his memory coming up short. “Maker’s breath - what day _is_ it?”

“And it all comes rushing back,” Dorian laughs, dragging a chair over from the far corner of the room to drape himself in with that foolishly casual air he has apparently perfected. “Usually that only happens to me after far too much wine. _Eat_. You look horrible.”

Cullen glances up from spooning preserves atop his porridge and smiles, wryly. "Which is so much different from how I look every day."

There is a long second when Dorian’ face turns - sad? Cullen can’t quite read it, and then it’s gone, replaced by a casual smirk. “I assure you, Commander, that your dashing good looks are the envy of many a man in Skyhold. Just not myself.”

Cullen feels his cheeks heat, despite himself. “I’m hardly dashing,” he mutters, bowing his head over his porridge.

He doesn’t need to see Dorian’s answering grin, he can _hear it_. “Oh, but you _are_. ‘The Lion of Skyhold...’”

“No one calls me that!”

Dorian’s laughter is _thunderous_ , echoing through the tower. “Not yet - at least not that I’ve heard. But it _does_ suit you. Perhaps I should start.”

“Don’t you dare.” Cullen grabs the nearest object at hand - a grape - and lobs it across the desk. It bounces harmlessly off the curve of Dorian's neck and rolls away across the stone floor. Dorian's look of shocked indignation is an absolute treasure.

"Why you -" Dorian snatches up a piece of winter melon and tosses it at Cullen, who tries to duck, though not quite quickly enough. The melon takes him in the side of the forehead and skids through his hair. Within moments they are crouched behind opposite sides of the desk, tossing bits of fruit and cheese, shouting challenges, like two boys left unattended at the supper table. 

"Take that!" Dorian crows, bouncing a grape off Cullen's ear with stinging accuracy. He ducks as an answering volley of melon sails over his head. 

"Don't think you're going to win this one, Pavus." Cullen grabs for the spoon from the pot of preserves, lining it up like a catapult. "I've got years of practice in dining room warfare."

Dorian's head appears for an instant above the line of the desk, and Cullen lets fly with the spoon, launching a generous glob of blackberry preserves that strikes Dorian on the edge of his jaw and -

"Ah - begging your pardon, Commander."

Years of military training has Cullen springing to attention from behind the desk. A terrified young soldier, dwarfed by armour too big for his underfed frame, stands awkwardly in the open doorway, clutching a sheaf of papers like a shield. 

Cullen ignores the fire of shame in his cheeks and summons a dignified voice from somewhere deep inside his chest. "What is it?" It's a miracle he doesn't stammer, or fall over his own tongue. 

"Ah - report for you sir."

"Yes, right. Put it -" his desk is chaos, bits of fruit and cheese, scattered papers. Dorian leans against the edge of the desk, his smile far too smug for a man with blackberries smeared on his face. "Just give it here,"

The soldier scurries over and passes the report into Cullen's hand, face the colour of an overripe plum, muttering. "Sorry" again before he breaks for the door. When it closes behind him, Cullen rubs a hand across his own face and groans.

"Maker's breath - what a nightmare." When he drops his hand, all the mirth has vanished Dorian’s face. He looks stunned, somehow; and there’s still blackberry preserve on his face. "You have some -" Cullen says, reaching for Dorian's stained cheek. Dorian flinches at the movement, takes a step back, and Cullen drops his hand back to his side.

"Well, that was unexpected," Dorian laughs, falsely bright. He swipes the blackberry preserve from his face with his thumb, licks it clean in the same smooth movement. Cullen's heart stammers behind his ribs. "It was a pleasure to face you on the field of battle, Commander. Perhaps we can arrange a rematch, sometime soon."

Dorian leaves before Cullen can gather his wits, leaving him to gather up the bits of food from the floor instead.

The day seems to slip away from him, after that. Cullen pours over reports, attends a meeting with the Inquisitor and the other advisors, does an inspection of the troops. By the time he has a moment to himself, it’s already past dark. 

Though Skyhold is never truly deserted - there’s always someone walking the walls, or wandering the halls at night - there’s a hush over the castle once night falls. On nights when he cannot sleep - of which there are many - Cullen sometimes wanders the courtyard,or visits the garden. Having neglected yet another meal, this time his wanderings take him to the kitchen, despite feeling a certain amount of guilt over helping himself to food, as if he were a wicked child sneaking sweets, instead of a hungry man salvaging some dry bread and a few apples.

He’s leaning against the butcher’s block, staring into the low embers of the fire, with a bitten apple in one hand, rubbing his gritty, tired eyes with the other, when a voice says, “I’m beginning to wonder if you know how to feed yourself - or is that something they neglect in Templar training?”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen mutters, hand over his pounding heart, the soft flesh of the apple dampening his surcoat. “What are you -”

“Just returning my dishes,” Dorian smiles, holding an empty plate and wooden goblet up as evidence. “Leave them unattended in the library and our lovely spymaster’s birds tend to get after them.” He deposits them in an empty washbasin on the edge of the counter, and ghosts his hands across his thighs, as if smoothing invisible wrinkles in his trousers. “Apologies for disturbing your evening meal, Commander.”

He turns towards the door, and a single word escapes Cullen’s throat, unbidden.

“Stay.”

Dorian goes still, but he doesn’t turn back. His soft laughter is like something breaking. “Now why would you ask me to do that?”

Cullen shrugs, realizes Dorian can’t see him with his back turned, and answers. “Am I not allowed to enjoy your company?”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

Dorian's lip twitches, but doesn't quite manage a smile, sarcastic or otherwise. “Enjoy my company.”

“Of course I do.” Why wouldn’t he? Dorian is...he’s spontaneous, as sharp as a dagger, always cheerful, even when he has no right to be. He forces Cullen outside himself; forces him to think of something beyond his tower walls.

“You shouldn’t let anyone hear you say that.” Dorian warns. In the low light, Cullen can see the muscles in his arm cording as his fingers tighten around the door handle.

“There’s no one here but us.” Still, his voice drops low, instinctually, and Dorian’s shoulders twitch.

“Someone’s always listening.” It sounds like he’s grinding his teeth together. “And they’ll talk about what they’ve heard - or think they’ve heard. You shouldn’t lurk with me in dark rooms, Commander.”

“We’re not -” Cullen breaks off, laughing - _lurking_ , honestly - and Dorian hisses a curse through his teeth. “What’s this about? What have they said to you?”

He knows not everyone in Skyhold approves of Dorian’s presence within the Inquisition, or his seemingly favoured place at the Inquisitor’s side; there are even some stupid enough to be vocal about it. It’s one thing to be ignorant, another to parade one’s ignorance around like a prized Mabari hound. None of them would dare make that mistake anywhere Cullen might hear them. Dorian has earned his place in the Inquisition with blood.

“It isn’t about what they say to me - or about me,” Dorian says, shaking his head."Whatever anyone says about me, I can assure you, I’ve heard far worse. It doesn't upset me."

"Well you certainly seem upset." Even with his back still turned, it's obvious enough in the tense line of his shoulders, the rigid straightness of his spine. "You don't have to play pretend on my account. And if it was something _I_ said or did -" he remembers the stony glint in Dorian's eyes, the way he drew back from Cullen's hand. "Dorian, I'm -"

Dorian surges forward, and years of training and experience sing through Cullen’s muscles, moving him defensively before the more rational part of his mind even has time to properly react. Dorian gets both hands in Cullen’s fur collar, but it’s not an attempt to throw, or even an attack at all; he pulls their bodies together and meets Cullen’s mouth with his, almost too rough, tinged with the taste of wine. Cullen may actually forget to breathe, for a moment.

His arse hits the edge of the butcher’s block; his apple hits the floor somewhere. It’s a graceless kiss, and Dorian pulls back too quickly, leaving Cullen’s hands chasing after him, even as he steps just out of reach.

“It’s nothing you’ve done, you understand.” Dorian’s lips are spit-shined in the low light, but his weary smile is like a gash across his face. “It’s what I’ve done. It’s always what I do.”

“Do you -” Cullen begins, breaking off only to lick his own lips, self-consciously tonguing the edge of his scar. “Do you think I’m some kind of fool? That I’ll just - _Maker’s breath_.”

He’s not a politician, or an orator. At best, Cullen can manage a battle cry - action serves him best when words escape. He grabs Dorian by the wrist and by the belt, moving with him instead of against him when he tries to move further away, until his back hits the door and their lips meet again. Dorian makes a small, frustrated noise in the back of his throat, pricks Cullen’s lower lip with his teeth, before finally acquiescing to the flicker of Cullen’s tongue.

The kiss seems to go on forever. When they finally separate, Cullen doesn’t dare release his grip on Dorian, for fear he might run, or push him away. He keeps their faces close, breathing in the lemon soap, hot ash, and dried parchment scent of Dorian’s skin. There is a trace of something sharp and terribly familiar underneath that he refuses to acknowledge. He lets himself think of other things, instead, things that have teased the edges of his conscious mind for weeks, if not longer: _I want to run my fingers through his hair, taste the skin on the back of his neck_ ; thoughts he never allowed before, that seem safest in the warmth between their bodies.

“That’s a terrible idea,” Dorian says, and Cullen startles realizing he spoke aloud.

“I - well - most of my ideas are,” Cullen mutters, feeling familiar heat trickle up his neck and into his cheeks. “May I kiss you again?”

Dorian kisses him, instead.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he warns, in between the meeting and parting of their lips.

To which Cullen can think of only one proper response. 

“ _Please_.”

-End-


End file.
